


If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)

by underwoodblood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drunkenness, F/F, Femslash, First Kiss, Genderswap, Mycroft Holmes-centric, Mycroft's office, of sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underwoodblood/pseuds/underwoodblood
Summary: "At first it’d been very unsettling to Mycroft to have those little moments of casual conversations. She simply didn’t have time nor energy to chat if not for some diplomatic reasons. Not many people had tried to anyway.And then there was Lestrade. Casually popping by, casually changing the subject, casually making Mycroft share things about herself too. It wasn’t rude and it didn’t seem presumptuous. Not when it was followed by that charming grin."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)

**Author's Note:**

> It doesn't even have a proper plot, it's just me throwing my thoughts about fem!mystrade at you, trust me.

It’s hard to find a person who truly understands you, Mycroft knew it. Not in an idealistic, romanticized way, god, no. It’s hard to find someone, even (or especially) in her field of work, who perceives things in a similar way. Obedience, that’s one and incredibly useful quality, but it’s not exactly about it.

Mycroft kept wondering what it’s really about while listening to Inspector Lestrade’s chatter. It was so easy, so effortless. They talked not only about Sherlock. They didn’t talk about her much these days, to be honest. Naturally, it always started with some pretext about work and cases, but after a while it was always Mycroft looking sheepishly at the floor, smiling, and Detective Inspector, leaning against the nearest wall, chatting up as if they weren’t in the middle of Scotland Yard. This time they were in Mycroft’s office though. Talking about some files Sherlock has lost. Well, they stopped talking about this some time ago. Now it was just Inspector, sitting comfortably at the other end of the desk, telling a story of her niece’s christening.

At first it’d been very unsettling to Mycroft to have those little moments of casual conversations. She simply didn’t have time nor energy to _ chat _ if not for some diplomatic reasons. Not many people had tried to anyway. 

And then there was Lestrade. Casually  _ popping by _ , casually changing the subject, casually making Mycroft share things about herself too. It wasn’t rude and it didn’t seem presumptuous. Not when it was followed by that charming grin.

It couldn’t be about obedience at all. Mycroft realized. She had a lot of compliant subordinates and it was not the same. Not even close. Even though Detective Inspector really was cooperative and helpful, she wasn’t docile. She trusted her own beliefs, didn’t let herself be intimidated easily, and didn’t hesitate to tell both Holmeses to ‘get the hell out’ when they were being too much. 

Mycroft had used to think it was all about intelligence - she couldn’t enjoy social interactions because of her complicated mind. Of course she never talked about it in a manner Sherlock did, but that was the only explanation. A good one, an indisputable one. 

Detective Inspector wasn’t stupid, absolutely not, but she was such a _ goldfish _ . Good, straightforward, always smiling. How could she understand Mycroft? More importantly,  _ why _ Mycroft understood her?

And yet she did. All those personal stories weren’t boring. They were witty and comforting, and sometimes, when Lestrade decided to elaborate on something less positive, it wasn’t uncomfortable, even if Mycroft didn’t know what to say.

It bothered Mycroft. She’d never been so unprofessional before. But it was hard to stay professional. She’d started visiting Scotland Yard more often, checking on every of Sherlock’s crime scenes. She’d started to seek all kinds of occasions and it’d been all Lestrade’s fault. 

It might have been because of pure starvation. She would never admit it, even to herself, even after a few drinks in her empty, echoing house, but she starved  _ someone _ . 

That need wasn’t significant, it’s been hidden deep down in Mycroft’s mind, almost almost forgotten. Only sometimes it was hard spending another night alone or finishing that Greta Garbo’s film she loved so much. As no one can get everything, Mycroft got used to it.

Now it was the end of it all, a catastrophe. Everything so carefully bottled up, every denied moment of vulnerability started creeping out of the shadows. She sought and sought new occasions to be in Grace’s presence. 

Grace. 

After five years of being awfully formal it was not Detective Inspector anymore. Well, it was, sometimes, in Mycroft’s head.  _ It’s more respectful that way. _

She thought she could manage to ignore all this. Ignoring what it did to her. It was humiliating, being so _ receptive _ for nothing more but a grin, a wink, a touch from time to time. She did not work like that, she had never agreed on that. It hadn’t been so hard. Rejecting. 

Now? It was unfamiliar - wanting to spend so much time with someone.  _ Dear god. _

Lestrade, Grace was sitting there, talking, toying with a marble chess piece she’d grabbed from the desk. Mycroft knew she had to pull herself together and actually participate in their conversation instead of eyeing Lestrade shamelessly.

But she considered herself weak though. Never able to stop herself from reaching for another chocolate, another cigarette, another look at unaware Detective Inspector. Because, just as sugar and nicotine, looking at Grace was also very pleasurable. 

It wasn’t just Mycroft’s personal opinion. Of course not, she had not a personal opinion on that matter. It was a fact. Grace Lestrade was very attractive. Objectively, of course. A bit tanned, a bit fit, with strong thighs, dark eyes, and the most astounding grin on earth. And her voice, charmingly raspy. Even her disarrayed suits, unbuttoned shirts and rolled up trousers couldn’t really change all that. 

“Oh no, you’re doing that Sherlock thing. That’s not good.” 

“Pardon?” Mycroft said not really catching the thought. She realized Grace was leaning over, looking worried. 

“You were just staring and thinking. Your sister does that all the time, but it still freaks me out. You okay?”

She regained her composure quicky, shaking her head. It obviously couldn’t end well, being so unprofessional and carefree.

“Yes, I apologize, I’m fine.” At that moment Mycroft wasn’t the most convincing person on earth. She definitely wouldn’t fool Lestrade. Always watchful. 

“Always bloody working, aren’t you?”

“As far as I'm concerned you are not any better yourself, Detective Inspector.”

The words triggered the desired reaction, making Grace smile a little. 

“Actually”, She leaned on a chair putting the chess piece on its place, “I’m off work for today and you’re tired. Let’s have a drink.

_ What?  _ It was improper, inquisitive and even though they did talk from time to time they were not _ friends _ . Mycroft could handle rude, but she had a huge problem with how to react to  nice .

She wanted to say something, but Grace was quicker. “Oh, come on. I bet you have a bottle of whisky stashed somewhere here.” 

  
  


That wasn’t a good idea. Mycroft could want and fantasize about things in her head, but getting too close to those wants was like playing with fire. She was convinced she didn’t really  _ need _ any of this. Of course lonely days were distressing sometimes. But she had work, didn’t she? It was stupid to desire more.

“Alright.” She said against herself and got up quickly to hide her expression. Her hands automatically went to straighten her skirt. 

  
  


There were two more comfortable chairs standing by the wall opposite to the desk. Mycroft wanted them there for longer, more exhausting conversations, but also to have some piece of resemblance to the Diogenes Club in her office. She rarely has an occasion to use them. Her guests didn’t stay for that long and she didn’t really have time for relaxing, but now they seemed perfect. 

When Mycroft managed to get an unopened bottle and two perfectly cleaned glasses, Grace was already seated. Her jacket remained on a chair by the desk and she really looked ‘ _ off work _ ’ considering the state or her ecru shirt.

“Isn’t Anthony gonna…” she asked finishing the sentence by simply pointing her head in the door’s direction.

“Ah, no.” Mycroft looked at her small wristwatch. “He left at five.”

“Brilliant! No work for you too, then.”

“I’m afraid I still need to-” 

“Mycroft, come on. I’m sure England won’t fall this evening. Sit down.”

So she did, not wanting to stand awkwardly anymore. Her head hurt slightly, probably because of her hair being pulled in that awfully tight low bun again and her legs were already in pain too after the whole day in heels, but she didn’t realize all that until she let herself relax with a glass of whisky in hand. Somehow, Lestrade knew exactly how to help her.

Of course, as Mycroft had been able to foresee, their first drink wasn’t the last one. Quickly they both loosened up. Mycroft’s pearl earrings got quickly forgotten on the small table, her own jacket also abandoned somewhere in the office. 

It was nice. Grace voice got even huskier with time, her eyes glossy, but she kept amusing Mycroft with her stories, sometimes telling something rather inappropriate about her job or her boss and they both giggled. They weren’t drunk, not really. Just tipsy, but apparently this, and an undeniable charm of Detective Inspector was enough to change the atmosphere.

“God, I needed this.” 

Hearing this Mycroft thought Grace was reading her mind. It wasn’t possible though, and she was grateful for it, because that would mean Grace hearing all her improper thoughts, leaving and never coming back, and Mycroft was more than sure she wouldn’t survive it. 

For now though she didn’t worry about it. Her thoughts were safe and she could cherish them however long she wanted. 

So she focused on hair. It always made her wonder. How is it possible to have such beautiful hair. Reaching not longer than Grace’s shoulders. Not dyed, natural, but completely silver. Truly exquisite. 

Mycroft didn’t like to think about such things while sober, it only made her more miserable, but now.  _ Oh dear god _ , now she could let herself do it. 

“You’re doing this again, ” Grace said slowly and smirked.

“Oh, what now?”

“Thinkin’” she waved her hand. “You should just switch off that brilliant bloody mind of yours from time to time.”

Mycroft only smiled thinking how liberating, but awfully irresponsible that would be. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Come here.”

Mycroft must’ve misheard. Damned whisky.

“Pardon?” 

“If you want to. Come here or I’ll come to you.” Grace’s expression was absolutely serious.

Blink.

“Do you want me to?” She asked and Mycroft still felt like all this was only a huge misunderstanding. 

She could not understand it correctly. It was just her hazy mind and desperate heart making things up. Lestrade was still sitting there, still looking at her, so close they could easily reach for each other. But they were both motionless, still without the answer. Mycroft felt lost, vulnerable. It was scary to admit what she wanted.

“Yes.”

The next second she saw Grace leaning over her chair, hands resting on its back, one knee tucked between her legs. It happened so quickly, and then Mycroft was trapped. Not really trapped. She loved it. But it was getting hot and her heart almost found a way out of her chest and it was all so close from happening, but it wasn’t happening, and Grace seemed to be one step further and Mycroft couldn’t stand it. So when Grace leaned over and her hands landed on the chair, Mycroft ended it all by closing the distance.

It was a pure mess just from the beginning. Grace kisses were hungry and firm and it immediately made Mycroft want more, so she grabbed her face, afraid of missing even a bit.

But Lestrade wasn’t going anywhere. Quite the opposite. She changed her position straddling Mycroft’s lap for good now. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Tell me you don’t.”

“Grace, I don’t want you to stop.”

  
  
  


________

Maybe, just maybe, Mycroft thought when she tried to think it trough afterward, it was a bit about obedience after all.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
